


cherish that man

by bastaerd



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Existential Angst, Illnesses, M/M, Post-Ep 8, Terrortober 2020 (The Terror), sad necking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26887933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd/pseuds/bastaerd
Summary: “Francis, you can’t know what the future will hold.”“I can surmise the vague shape of it."
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 18
Kudos: 58





	cherish that man

**Author's Note:**

> for the terrortober day 7 prompt _love._ on that note, spot the star trek reference-- it's love-related and forms practically the entire basis for the idea for this fic dkjfghfkjh.

The smell of ash follows them like ghosts. It clings to them, with icy hands on their shoulders, men made of nothing but memory now begging to be brought along so that they might see home again. They have burrowed into the wool of their coats, the knit of their sweaters, the weave of their linens, grey and desperate.  _ Don’t leave us here; don’t leave us here.  _ The ashes of their friends cling to their faces like kisses on their cheeks, like fingers brushing through their hair. They carry them with them that way, and though they have no guarantee that they themselves will survive this place, it is better than dying alone.

They leave behind piles of supplies, intended for any of the breakaway band who wish to return, but with no one there as they make towards the horizon again, it looks more as if the provisions are meant for their dead. They are nothing now, and have no need for such earthly things as poisoned food and weather-worn tents, but neither do they have graves. Even the men at Beechey had graves, and even what little they could retrieve of Sir John had a coffin. Nothing marks these men as men, as having lived and having once been alive, and the supplies are the only things preventing them from being burned away entirely. These rotten tins may outlive the sturdiest of the crews. They will outlast James, certainly.

Is this what is to become of him, in just a few weeks’ time? Will his corpse be burned like the men lost at Terror Camp, his bones brittle and indistinguishable from those of the other men they lose along the way? He does not think he can contend with the thought. To be unseen-- he can accept that, as he has become such a master of hiding in his lifetime, but to be made forgettable and forgotten about? The thought makes bile rise in his throat, sets old wounds to aching. Even if he disappears, he needs-- wants, such as he wants nothing else in life-- to have existed, even for a short time, even for an unextraordinary time. Even by his failures, even,  _ even, _ by his death. A death approaching from the south, as James hears the hooves fast on the shale. Would that his own footfalls could be as steady as those of that pale horse.

As it is, they take him of their own volition to Francis’ tent, and he lets himself in without introduction or invitation. His fellow captain stands in the middle of the space, in the scant room between his bed and his desk, arms folded and brow wrinkled with consternation. It has been a long day, though the sun is still high and bright. Francis wears every mile of the trek on his face, carries it in his posture. No doubt they have made this leg of the journey easier for themselves by leaving some of their supplies behind, but that is not the reason Francis made the call to do so. James stands there and thinks, for the second time,  _ More than God loves them, _ and, as if his thoughts have alerted him to his presence, Francis lifts his head. His greeting is little more than “James,” said on a hum, before he drags a hand down his face from hairline to chin.

“I have the feeling I’ve interrupted you from your thoughts,” James says, stepping further into the tent. Francis looks up at him over his fingers.

“We’ve had no lack of things to occupy our minds,” he replies, then sighs. “I was thinking about the boat sledges. How much we can stand to carry with us, while making sure to provide for every man here, while  _ also  _ taking into account the fact that as we walk, there will be fewer for whom we must provide and fewer to haul.”

James nods. “If nothing else, the numbers will even themselves out,” he supplies with wry practicality. Soon, he realizes that this train of thought is not one he wishes to follow any longer for the fear of unraveling, and instead, with a sigh of his own, nudges Francis’ shoulder until they are turned to facing one another. “But let’s take some respite from those thoughts. I think we’ve earned a moment’s peace today, and, as you said, there’s no lack of other things with which to occupy our thoughts.”

Francis says nothing, but his hand brushes James’ for a breath’s worth of time, which is response enough. “Francis,” James says, softer now, “you can’t know what the future will hold.”

“I can surmise the vague shape of it,” Francis replies. As if it is something to chart around rather than to travel through. There is only one way, when it comes to time, and that way is forwards and against all else.

“Yes, fine, then. We will all grow sick and exhausted and we’ll start dropping as we walk, if we aren’t snatched up by our friend from the ice. Have I covered the basics, the  _ rough contours _ of it, or is there something I’ve missed?”

Francis’ lips pull into a scowl. His unhappiness is not directed at James, he knows, but towards the circumstances which surround them. In some way, the vast openness feels more like a cage than the yawning planks of the ships ever did. At least then they had signed up for those cages, had known exactly where they were to be kept; now, they have been flung out into a wider uncertainty.

“Is that what you want to dwell on?” James asks him, and Francis looks tempted to reply, but bereft of a sufficient answer; he has never been one for words when those words are useless. “Then let me take it for you, Francis. Give it to me so that I may remove that storm cloud from your mind for a spell.”

He receives no answer for his troubles.

“If this is something to which you must cling,” he tries again, “I understand it. I’ll give it back, but before then, I’d like you to let me help you with it.”

Finally, Francis says, “It’s too heavy, James. I think if you took it from my shoulders, we’d both collapse,” and then huffs a flat laugh. “Who would have ever guessed that ghosts could be so heavy?”

“Not all of us are ghosts yet, Francis.”

The look Francis gives him feels like the softened scars in his arm and chest. Tender and painful, in the way it hurts to visit the grave of a loved one. The line of macerated tissue aches near constantly. These, too, he has kept from Francis, a deeper secret than the circumstances of his birth and of his rank. He had feared the man’s pity before he had realized that he had none to dole out. Here, he does not fear pity, but something far worse; he does not have the strength to shoulder the grief of two people.

His hands go to Francis’ shoulders in a mirror of the comfort Francis had lended him only two days ago. “Let me help,” he implores him, and kisses his cheek, where the sunken apple of it folds his expression into sadness. It is a testament to how long they have walked, how exhaustion suffuses their every moment, that Francis does not pull away in surprise. Perhaps, though, he has no reason to. James hopes he is correct in his estimate, and kisses the same spot again as if tending to a wound.

It is difficult to feel truly hidden here, where they have no roofs but the canvas walls of their tents, no limit to the endless sky and nothing to separate them from the heavens. The days grow longer now, and they must make good use of the few hours they have of true nighttime. James feels a strange helplessness at the fact that he will never see polar night again, that eternal darkness the men have dreaded ever since Beechey. There will never be a darker night than this, not for him, and tomorrow night, there will never be a darker night than that one. He seeks the shadow underneath Francis’ jaw instead, and pushes his mouth against his neck, pressing with his lips first and then with his tongue against the point of Francis’ pulse. If he tries hard enough, he might push his own weakness into that skin so that Francis may allow himself this hour of vulnerability.

“James,” says Francis to him, his voice ruffling the hair at his ear. He feels his chest rise and fall under him, and places a hand there in the middle of it, flat-palmed to Francis’ sternum, to feel the movement of it. Lips to heartbeat and hand to breath, he roots himself in the evidence of Francis’ life. When Francis reaches up to him, he does not notice until the man’s broad hand is at his neck, fingers at the nape and thumb touching the angle of his jaw. He hears the whisper of his name again and lets himself be pulled to meet Francis’ lips properly this time.

“Rest,” James says in the moments in between, and takes Francis’ forearm, steering him to his bed and coaxing him into sitting down. His knees protest at first, unused to being bent if not to walk, but they, too, are tired enough to give in. Francis sinks down onto his bed; there, he is at a height on the low frame such that James can kneel in front of him and still be at eye level. He does so, and Francis opens his legs, knees apart so that James can occupy that space, shuffling forward and ignoring the ground glass sensation in his joints. It would be so easy here to palm at Francis’ groin, to focus his attentions there, but to do so would cheapen the time they have, the time James has. Francis must have a similar idea, because he makes for the front of James’ trousers as if it would only be polite to do so, but James catches his wrist and redirects his hand upward. He lays Francis’ hand against his cheek and kisses his wrist, kisses the heel of his hand, kisses the knuckle of his thumb and the calluses that have formed under years at sea. He wears the map of his life in his rough patches, in the capacity of his lungs, in the circle of his arms. It is a circle into which James wants to fold himself; if he cannot remain himself and be remembered, then he can be a part of Francis, who will keep that part of him safe and well-tended. The plot dug for him will never grow over with weeds.

This near, and without their wigs, there is no doubt that Francis can see the dark dots of blood at James’ scalp, hidden so cleverly by the swoop of his hair but unmistakable up close. Mercifully, he does not remark upon it, nor does James ask not to be grieved. That will all come in due time, and when it happens, he will not be there to request a memorial. For now, he kisses Francis’ cheeks, runs his fingers through his hair, and apologizes in a thousand silent ways that he will be one more ghost for Francis to carry. He hopes his weight will be worth shouldering.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://edward-little.tumblr.com).


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